Chapter 4: The Sofa

I took the phone out of Ilario's hand and typed a single word to "E."

Understood.

Then I put it in my pocket and looked at him.

"Ettore thinks his first crew is inside this house right now," I said. "His second crew hits the club at dawn. How long do we have?"

"Until it's light. Two hours."

"Call the seven captains who stayed in their chairs. Tell them to bring men to the club. Quietly."

Ilario studied me for a moment, and then he picked up his own phone.

"Yes, Marta," he said.

I didn't answer him.

By four in the morning the club had thirty men inside and ten on the roof.

I sat at my grandfather's table with the lights off and my arm in Ilario's handkerchief.

At first light, two vans turned onto Ferry Street and rolled slowly toward the club doors.

The man in the first van saw the men on the roof.

He stopped, and he sat there with his engine running.

Then both vans backed out of the street, and nobody fired a shot.

One of the captains laughed under his breath.

"She didn't say a word," he said. "She just sent one reply and waited."

I did not tell him that I had been shaking for an hour.

We took the wounded man out through the back and put him in the care of two captains who didn't ask me what would happen to him.

By seven I was home again, standing in my grandfather's kitchen in a blood-stiff dress.

Ilario came in behind me and set his keys on the table.